The Shrine. To .......

My fates had destined me to rove
A long, long pilgrimage of love;
And many an altar on my way
Has lured my pious steps to stay;
For if the saint was young and fair,
I turned, and sung my vespers there.
This, from a youthful pilgrim's fire,
Is what your pretty saints require:
To pass, nor tell a single bead,
With them would be profane indeed!
But, trust me, all this young devotion
Was but to keep my zeal in motion;
And, every humbler altar past,
I now have reached THE SHRINE at last!

Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore was an Irish poet, singer, and songwriter, celebrated for his Irish Melodies, which are now considered a staple of Irish cultural heritage. Born on May 28, 1779, in Dublin, Ireland, Moore gained fame for his lyrical songs, many of which were set to traditional Irish tunes. Not only a poet, but he was also a staunch advocate of Irish nationalism, often incorporating themes of national identity and resistance into his work. Moore's influential collection 'Irish Melodies' became popular in both Ireland and Britain and helped to define the literary output of the era. He passed away on February 25, 1852, but his legacy in Irish literature and music endures.

Thomas Moore

She Sung Of Love.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

At The Mid Hour Of Night

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

Morality. A Familiar Epistle.

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

How Oft, When Watching Stars. (Savoyard Air.)

Thomas Moore, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

The Turf Shall Be My Fragrant Shrine. (Air.--Stevenson.)

The turf shall be my fragrant shrine;
My temple, LORD! that Arch of thine;
My censer's breath the mountain airs,
And silent thoughts my only prayers.

My choir shall be the moonlight waves,
When murmuring homeward to their caves,
Or when the stillness of the sea,
Even more than music dreams of Thee!

I'll seek, by day, some glade unknown,
All light and silence, like thy Throne;
And the pale stars shall be, at night,
The only eyes that watch my rite.

Thy Heaven, on which 'tis bliss to look,
Shall be my pure and shining book,
Where I shall read, in words of flame,
The glories of thy wondrous name.

I'll read thy anger in the rack
That clouds awhile the day-beam's track;
Thy mercy in the azure hue
Of sunny brightness, breaking ...

Thomas Moore

Where Is Your Dwelling, Ye Sainted? (Air.--Hasse.)

Where is your dwelling, ye Sainted?
    Thro' what Elysium more bright
Than fancy or hope ever painted,
    Walk ye in glory and light?
Who the same kingdom inherits?
    Breathes there a soul that may dare
Look to that world of Spirits,
    Or hope to dwell with you there?

Sages! who even in exploring
    Nature thro' all her bright ways,
Went like the Seraphs adoring,
    And veiled your eyes in the blaze--
Martyrs! who left for our reaping
    Truths you had sown in your blood--
Sinners! whom, long years of weeping
    Chastened from evil to good--

Maidens! who like the young Crescent,
    Turning away your pale brows
From earth and the light of the Present,
    Looked to your Heavenly Spouse--
Say, thro' what region enchante...

Thomas Moore

The Pilgrim.

Still thus, when twilight gleamed,
Far off his Castle seemed,
    Traced on the sky;
And still, as fancy bore him.
To those dim towers before him,
He gazed, with wishful eye;
    And thought his home was nigh.

"Hall of my Sires!" he said,
"How long, with weary tread,
    "Must I toil on?
"Each eve, as thus I wander,
"Thy towers seem rising yonder,
"But, scarce hath daylight shone,
    "When, like a dream, thou'rt gone!"

So went the Pilgrim still,
Down dale and over hill,
    Day after day;
That glimpse of home, so cheering,
At twilight still appearing,
But still, with morning's ray,
    Melting, like mist, away!

Where rests the Pilgrim now?
Here, by this cypress bough,
    Closed his career;
That dream,...

Thomas Moore

From The High Priest Of Apollo To A Virgin Of Delphi.[1]

        Cum digno digna.....
                                            SULPICIA.


"Who is the maid, with golden hair,
"With eye of fire, and foot of air,
"Whose harp around my altar swells,
"The sweetest of a thousand shells?"
'Twas thus the deity, who treads
The arch of heaven, and proudly sheds
Day from his eyelids--thus he spoke,
As through my cell his glories broke.

    Aphelia is the Delphic fair^[2]
With eyes of fire and golden hair,
Aphelia's are the airy feet.
And hers the harp divinely sweet;
For foot so light has never trod
The laurelled caverns of the god.
Nor harp so soft hath ever given
A sigh to earth or hymn to heaven.

    "Then tell the virgin to unfold,
"In looser pomp, her locks of gold...

Thomas Moore

Hymn Of A Virgin Of Delphi, At The Tomb Of Her Mother.

Oh, lost, forever lost--no more
    Shall Vesper light our dewy way
Along the rocks of Crissa's shore,
    To hymn the fading fires of day;
No more to Tempe's distant vale
    In holy musings shall we roam,
Through summer's glow and winter's gale,
    To bear the mystic chaplets home.^[1]

'Twas then my soul's expanding zeal,
    By nature warmed and led by thee,
In every breeze was taught to feel
    The breathings of a Deity.
Guide of my heart! still hovering round.
    Thy looks, thy words are still my own--
I see thee raising from the ground
    Some laurel, by the winds o'er thrown.
And hear thee say, "This humble bough
    Was planted for a doom divine;
And, though it droop in languor now,
    Shall flourish on the Delphic s...

Thomas Moore

Love And The Novice.

"Here we dwell, in holiest bowers,
    "Where angels of light o'er our orisons bend;
"Where sighs of devotion and breathings of flowers
    "To heaven in mingled odor ascend.
        "Do not disturb our calm, oh Love!
        "So like is thy form to the cherubs above,
"It well might deceive such hearts as ours."

Love stood near the Novice and listened,
    And Love is no novice in taking a hint;
His laughing blue eyes soon with piety glistened;
    His rosy wing turned to heaven's own tint.
        "Who would have thought," the urchin cries,
        "That Love could so well, so gravely disguise
"His wandering wings and wounding eyes?"

Love now warms thee, waking and sleeping,
    Young Novice, to him all thy orisons rise.
He tinges the heave...

Thomas Moore